Hands Across the Sea
by blinkblink
Summary: Newkirk and Carter, one of the most consistent, if volatile, friendships of the series. A set of loosely-related vignettes focused on their interaction. No pairings.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Don't own the show or the characters.

Notes: Since this is mostly just a series of related one-shots rather than a plot-driven story, I'm pretty lax in my writing of new chapters. I should have the next two out pretty evenly over the next week or so, but after that updates will be sporadic as new ideas occur. Enjoy!

_"A sudden thought strikes me; let us swear eternal friendship"_ (_The Rovers_, John Frere)

Carter isn't naturally suspicious. It was usually a good thing back home, where he'd known everyone in the community since he was a child and had hardly ever had to consider nottrusting them. Since coming to Germany, it's caused him nothing but trouble.

He spends 3 long months in Luft Stalag 7, and makes the same mistakes repeatedly in different circumstances. That loses him what little of his Red Cross package the Krauts deliver, the small fold of currency he had on him when he was shot down, and any chance of even treatment among the prisoners. It also earns him a month in the cooler when he ends up taking the fall for a pair of corporals, the worst 31 days in his life.

The escape is long and hard, and he spends three days awake and tense as a bow-string, lying in cold hollows at the edge of forests during the day and travelling by night. With no help from the other men in the Stalag he has no map, no food, no proper clothes and no papers. On the third day he falls asleep on his feet, and is captured by a roving patrol.

It's the luckiest thing that has happened to him since leaving home.

He's taken in for a round of interrogation, and then reassigned to Luft Stalag 13. Even as the scapegoat of Stalag 7 he'd heard of its reputation: the one POW camp in Germany with no escapes. He knows as soon as he hears it that he will spend the rest of the war in this camp. And that, if he will be there for perhaps years, he cannot let Stalag 7 happen again. Cannot be himself.

He spends the entire trip in the truck in self-imposed silence, ignoring the other three men being shipped to 13 along with him. He won't trust anyone, won't help anyone with anything that doesn't benefit him, won't be anything but suspicious.

* * *

They arrive in the late afternoon, and the compound is relatively empty; probably most of the men are eating. The four of them are ushered into the Kommandant's office by an overweight sergeant. The Kommandant's a balding man wearing a monocle, and doesn't seem like much at first glance. Carter thinks it must be a front for a cruel, callous keeper, and congratulates himself on his deductions. He's assigned to barracks 2, while the other men are given to 17 and 18.

"You're an escaper," the Kommandant tells him. "We'll have Colonel Hogan keep an eye on you. You won't have any chances in _this_ camp."

He's not sure what that means, but he picks up his bag and is escorted across the compound to the building directly across from the Kommandantur. The hardest barracks in camp to escape from.

Carter takes a deep breath, and reaches out a gloved hand to open the door. It pulls open away from him before he takes hold, and a pair of men tumble out with baseball gloves and a ball. A Brit and a Frenchman; they stumble to avoid hitting him and circle around instead.

"'Ere, you our new bunkmate, then?" The Brit, a corporal, turns him around with quick fingers and pats him in a friendly manner. The other – also a corporal – elbows his friend in the side.

"It's not nice to steal from people you've just met," he says, darkly.

The Brit smiles with false innocence, and produces what looks very much like Carter's wallet with a flourish. "Couldn't 'elp meself, mate. You looked so glum." He hands it back with good grace, and Carter almost slips it back into his pocket before remembering to check it. When he looks back up the two men are watching him closely.

"Uh, Sergeant Carter, US Air Corps," he says, not sure what they're waiting for.

"We can see that," says the French corporal, and Carter wonders whether he's offended them already or if the men in this camp are just all bad tempered. Whether he'll become like that too – and then stops, because of course he already has. It's what he's made himself into. But then the Frenchman, who barely comes up to Carter's shoulder, smiles and shrugs.

"LeBeau and Newkirk," he says, gesturing to indicate himself and the British corporal. "Welcome to Stalag 13."

"Thanks," replies Carter thoughtlessly, then rebukes himself.

Corporal Newkirk slips the glove off his hand and gestures at the building. "You want a tour? 'Ey, you already been through the delousing station?"

Carter shivers. "I had my last two weeks ago."

This raises eyebrows. "You're not a new prisoner?"

"I was in Stalag 7 for three months." Now that he's in the conversation he's not sure how to get out of it, except by being as curt as possible.

Newkirk whistles. "We 'ear they're pretty tough," he says, impressed, and LeBeau nods. "You were lucky to get a transfer," he adds, which makes no sense at all. And then, before Carter can say anything, "What regiment were you with before that?"

"162nd," he answers. "Shot down over Dusseldorf."

The men nod, and Newkirk steps forward to open the door. "C'mon in. You'll have to see the colonel anyway. What about the other men who came in with you?"

"I don't know them," says Carter, and strides in past the man without further words.

The barracks isn't much different than the ones at 7, maybe a bit larger. There's a stove with a pot on it heating what smells like coffee, which _is_ a difference; they weren't allowed fires this early in the year, and private rations were usually traded or stolen and rarely made it to the cooking stage.

"You're bunk is there," says Newkirk, pointing at the lower bunk of the bed right beside the door. "I'm upstairs, so if you need me, just knock." Carter doesn't know what to make of that and so just ignores it and tosses his bag onto the bunk, regretting the movement immediately as it means he'll have to leave it behind unsupervised when he goes to talk to the colonel. He doesn't have much in it, but now he won't have anything when he comes back.

* * *

The senior POW, Colonel Robert Hogan, isn't what he's expecting. He had predicted a man crushed by the captivity and the hopelessness, probably prematurely grey and depressed. The colonel is a youngish man, full of vitality and highly engaged. He chats to Newkirk and LeBeau as they usher Carter into his quarters – a section of barracks 2 separated by a thin wall – and doesn't even require them to come to attention. Carter does, standing stiff and saluting until the colonel returns it and gestures for him to stand at ease. Newkirk and LeBeau stay in the room, a fact which not only seems not bother the colonel but apparently passes completely unnoticed.

"So, an escapee," the colonel says, glancing at Carter with dark eyes and an easy smile. "From Stalag 7. How's Captain Williams?"

"Fine, sir," says Carter flatly. His natural instinct is to respond to the colonel's friendly attitude in kind, but it's not hard to prevent himself when thinking back to 7's senior POW, who did little to control the men under command other than to see that escape attempts were kept to a reasonable rate.

Hogan nods. "Still got that limp, does he?" he asks with even greater camaraderie, eyes wandering now.

Carter frowns. "No, sir. No limp."

"Huh, must've healed up. Never mind. What regiment were you with?"

"The 162nd, sir. Shot down over Dusseldorf," he repeats without emotion. He's said the words so many times in the past three months that they hardly seem real anymore. Carter doesn't mind; he'd just as well forget that night.

"162nd, eh? So that'll be Colonel Miller?"

"No, sir, Colonel Stanley."

"Right, right. But you know Parker, right? Everyone knows Parker."

"…I don't think so, sir."

Hogan looks at him in shock. "Hm, I thought everyone knew Parker."

"Afraid not, sir." Carter's really starting to hope all conversations with the colonel aren't going to be such a stiff question-and-answer routine. He's also starting to wish the man _were_ crushed and depressed; it would make it a lot easier to keep from responding to his enthusiasm. But for a reason he's not sure of the man seems to relax now, or at least shift into a different gear.

"Alright, Sergeant," says Hogan, straightening and losing some of his extreme cheerfulness. "I think we can trust you."

There's a tandem protest from Newkirk and LeBeau, but the colonel waves it off. "He's in the barracks, we can't just hope he won't notice. You knew we'd have to fill the bunk eventually."

Carter listens, mystified.

"Truth is, Sergeant, we're running a … call it a Traveller's Aid Society. We help downed airmen get back to England, and do what we can to give the local Underground a hand. The reason there's no escapes from Stalag 13 is because we make sure there aren't."

Carter frowns. "I don't… come again, sir?" This isn't what he was expecting. Is it a trick? Some kind of a trap? He's trying hard to be suspicious, but he doesn't have enough experience, and it's becoming harder and harder to draw a line in the sand.

"We've been ordered by London to stay here and help the war effort from behind enemy lines. We've got a radio, and tunnels that give us access to the outside when we want it," says Hogan, as if it were nothing. "We can leave whenever we want, provided we come back in time for roll call. Now, you're new to camp so we won't expect you to help out with anything for a while, but since you're in our main base of operations you had to know."

Carter just stares.

"Maybe we should show 'im, sir?" suggests Newkirk. Hogan nods, waving them off.

"Fine, fine."

* * *

In one way, the tunnels are astounding. But mostly they're so far out of his frame of reference, Carter can't form any opinion of them or the operation the men here are apparently running under the feet of their captors. He can hardly make sense of the factory turning out novelty letter-openers, the forging station printing German marks, or the photography and tailoring station fitting men out with papers and clothes to help them pass as Germans.

Instead, he tries to focus on the men. LeBeau tags along for a while, but then is called away for something and he's left with just Newkirk as his guide.

The main thing he notices about the British corporal is that he's the kind of man Carter would like to have for a friend; quick, easy-going and amusing. He only hopes he can keep from blowing it, and his life in this camp.

"Of course, the whole operation gets bogged down when we start getting heavy snowfall – you can brush out tracks for a while, but even the Krauts start to get suspicious of bloody great trails in feet of snow. And besides that, it's just ruddy freezing."

"Sure," says Carter, who doubts that the winters here are worse than North Dakota's, but with the barracks' poor insulation – he remembers seeing daylight through the slats in the barracks door – they don't have to be.

Newkirk, currently leading him back past the coding station being manned by an American staff sergeant, pauses. "Where're you from, anyway? East coast? West? Don't sound like a southerner, but I'm no great shakes at Yank accents." Newkirk puts a terrible southern drawl on the last two words; Carter grins.

"Right smack in the middle, on the northern border," he says. "Bullfrog, North Dakota."

Newkirk shrugs. "Never 'eard of it."

"Don't worry, Newkirk, neither has anyone in the States," puts in the sergeant, smiling. "We've got more men here than they do."

"Actually, we're home to the State Wheat Fair in October, it really puts us on the map. We've got space for three thousand," says Carter without thinking, and regrets it almost immediately, especially when he sees Newkirk's face freeze momentarily. But it unfreezes again, and the man slaps him on the shoulder.

"You tell 'em, mate. C'mon, I'd better take you up and show you the facilities. Better get it over with quick, then maybe you'll forgive me before the war's over." He heads towards the tunnel entrance into barracks 2. Carter follows.

* * *

He tries to keep quiet after the afternoon's slip-up, hardly talks through dinner in the mess hall – he gets a slice of white bread with no apparent stings attached, and actually sits staring at it so long LeBeau asks if he's waiting for it to eat _him._ Otherwise the food is much the same, heavy on the cabbage, stingy on the meat, but he thinks there may be a little more flavour to it.

Whatever's going on in this crazy camp, it may not be entirely as bad as he thought.

* * *

Carter spends two days keeping mostly to himself, talking only with the men in his barracks and even then hardly at all. Newkirk and Kinch are more open than some of the others – he thinks he may have offended LeBeau by telling the man his favourite food is hotdogs and mashed potatoes – but they're both busy with the downstairs operation and anyway he knows he's not making it easy for them.

He can't help it; he knows the only way to keep from putting his foot in his mouth is to keep it shut. And now that he's seen the kind of trust and friendships that have somehow managed to survive in this camp, he's even more afraid of blowing his chances of being a part of that. Better they think of him as aloof than hopeless.

Nevertheless, he's never been much good at that, and as time passes he slowly begins to creep in out of the cold, to join their conversations from the fringe. To become a minor, shadowy part of the group. He plays cards – badly – with Newkirk, helps LeBeau train the dogs, carries messages between Kinch and the colonel.

It seems like it might actually work. For almost an entire week.

* * *

"Carter!"

Carter's making his bed when the colonel hollers for him, and stands up so quick he nearly slams his head into Newkirk's bunk above.

"Coming, sir!" He drops the blanket, edges pulled out of their careful tucks by his startled reaction, and hurries into the colonel's office. Kinch, Newkirk and LeBeau are all in there, and they all turn to stare at him as he runs in with sharp eyes.

"Yes, sir?"

"Carter, yesterday I told you to tell Kinch to report to London that we _did_ need the sub for pick-up, right?" The colonel's unusually stern, and Carter flinches into a state near attention.

"Yes, sir."

"And did you?"

"I sure di –" he pauses. He certainly relayed the message; he remembers running down to Kinch and telling the sergeant… "I told Kinch that…"

"That we _didn't_ need the sub," says the sergeant.

"I, uh… I might've, sir," admits Carter. He's not even sure now. That the message was about the sub waiting, he definitely remembers. Whether it was supposed to or not…

"You might have," rumbles Hogan. "Let me tell you, soldier, the man we sent out to be picked up by the sub made it back to his safe-house when the sub didn't show. But he – and the crucial information he was carrying – could just as easily have been picked up by the Krauts."

"Bloody brilliant," spits Newkirk.

"_Completement fou_," adds LeBeau in a similar tone.

Carter looks down at the floor, unable to face them. "I'm sorry, sir. I'll – I'll try to be more careful…" He always _tries_. It just never seems to work out. And sooner or later he ends up making a complete mess of things. Like he's just done.

"You'll need to do more than try," warns Hogan. Carter snaps his eyes up and salutes, carefully looking at the wall behind the rest of the men.

"Yes, sir." He turns and hurries out without waiting for the dismissal, eager to escape the weight of the men's combined censure. There's no point in staying, anyway. He's ruined his chance, only one week in. Typical.

* * *

He's sitting on his bunk, staring glumly at the floor when the meeting breaks up. Kinch and LeBeau hurry past him without a word, climbing down into the tunnel. Newkirk ambles over to the table and sits, apparently without an assignment. After a minute he draws out a pack of cards and begins to shuffle.

"Want a 'and, then?"

Carter looks up, and sees the Brit riffling and bridging the cards between dextrous fingers, and grinning.

"Who, me?" He looks around, but there's no one else on his side of the table the man could be referring to.

"No, the bunk," says Newkirk, rolling his eyes. "O' course you."

Carter shifts, awkwardly. "I figured… figured you wouldn't want anything to do with me."

"'Cause you messed up? We all mess up sometimes, mate. The gov'nor, he can fly off the 'andle a bit when the operation's threatened; 'e'll be right as rain by supper. We're not gonna ostracize you for one mistake."

Carter swallows. He should accept it. Just take the offer at face value and say nothing more; that would be the smart thing to do.

It's not, however, the Carter thing to do. And pretending to be someone else is, sooner or later, just going to cause him to mess up even more than just plain old Carter would.

He slumps, resting his arms on his knees, and looks the corporal straight in the eye. "Wanna know something, Newkirk?" He pauses, then sighs. "It's not just one mistake. Not with me. I don't know why, but the one thing I'm good at – apart from blowing stuff up – is messing things up. If there's one thing that can go wrong, I'll manage it. I tried to turn over a new leaf here, but you can see how well that worked out," he says, bitterly. "So thanks, but you're better off without me. I'll just ruin your whole operation." Carter turns to sit with his back against the bunk's support, facing the tunnel entrance.

He hears Newkirk shuffling the cards a couple more times, and figures the conversation's over. The Brit's accepted his words, and he'll spend the rest of the war being the deadweight in the colonel's operation. Maybe he could apply to be assigned to a different barracks so they could at least have someone helpful in his bunk.

He's not expecting Newkirk to speak again, so when the Brit does it nearly causes Carter to lose his balance against the bunk's thin strut and fall backwards.

"You know, Carter," says the man lightly, still shuffling, "I can tell you as an honestly dishonest man, we've got plenty o' loyal men here. We've got men fightin' for their countries, for their families, for their freedom. And all of us're good at one thing: bein' what we need to be to win this war. You know what that makes us?"

Carter turned his head to face the Brit.

"Makes us one huge troop o' liars, mate. The colonel, 'e could convince you ol' Winnie's the ruddy Chancellor of Germany. You should see Kinch on the horn with Klink, 'e could make you believe 'e'd been in the German Army since birth. Me? I could sell you a watch with no bally hands."

"You guys're pretty talented," says Carter, and means it.

"Maybe we are," says Newkirk with a grin. "But I'll tell you what we don't have too many of. Honest men. Men who speak their minds, who don't make themselves up to be bigger than they are. Men to keep us grounded. Because let me tell you, mate, if someone's not around to remind us, we're liable to forget we can't fly. And I figure a man like that, maybe 'e'd be worth a few mistakes."

Carter stares. "I don't… I don't know how to do that," he says at last.

Newkirk rolls his eyes. "Carter, I'm tellin' you, all you've gotta do is be yourself. And if there're problems, let the colonel decide if and how to fix 'em. 'E's gotta earn 'is officer's salary some'ow, you know."

Carter blinks, trying to make sense of it all. Newkirk, though, has already moved on.

"Alright, then. Now 'ow about a bloody 'and, already?"

Maybe, just maybe, it really will be okay. Carter steps over and sits down on a bench, grinning. "Deal."


	2. Chapter 2

_Take him out for a test run_, the colonel said. _See how he does under pressure_.

Newkirk, trooping through the woods with Carter stumbling along behind him, has a bloody good idea how the man will perform without needing to risk his life to find out. So far the American sergeant has tripped twice, dropped his pistol once and fallen clear over a bush while startling away from a low-swooping owl.

If he'd known, when Carter told him he was liable to mess things up, just _how_ liable he was, he'd have given the man a bloody different answer. Newkirk sighs, and wishes he had more time to wallow in regret. He comforts himself with the thought that that was the last time he'll ever defend anyone's usefulness before getting to know them.

The mission Colonel Hogan sent them on is simple reconnaissance of a local munitions factory, which is just as well because anything more complicated would probably have involved Sgt. Andrew Carter getting the pair of them killed somehow. He means well, but outside of camp the man's more of a threat than the Germans; that became clear enough in the man's first month of stumbles, absentmindedness, and plain lack of logic. Newkirk told Hogan as much when he assigned the mission.

"We don't have an infinite pool to draw on, Newkirk. It's not like we can write to London for more capable men. We've got to make do with what we've got," was the colonel's answer.

His reply of: "Carter'll do us right into the grave," hadn't cut him any leeway.

So the pair of them are out in the woods 15 miles north of Hammelburg ducking around like rabbits, looking for the munitions factory they have intelligence suggesting is somewhere in the area. It's too early in the year for snow, but the ground is hard with frost under their boots, and leaves lie in a crisp blanket over it. Moving in silence is impossible, although Newkirk suspects that Carter's presence alone would ensure that in any situation.

It's past midnight, and in the darkness the glow of the half-full moon is hardly any guide. Both have flashlights, but neither dares to use them for fear of being sighted by the factory that could be beyond any group of trees. Overhead in the black tangle of leafless canopy the night birds are shuffling and hooting, branches crackling and whickering in the weak wind. Newkirk's a city man, and although he's slowly adjusting to the sounds of a forest at night, he's not all the way there yet. The one reassuring thing about Carter is his simple presence, and the fact that bumbling as the man, is the woods don't seem to phase him at all – except when they trip him up.

They locate the factory eventually by the simple expedient of nearly falling over it; they suddenly come out of the woods and find themselves standing on the top of a small ridge, with the factory lying nestled in the shallow valley beyond. It is hardly more than a collection of dark squares of monochrome surrounded by what in the moonlight looks like a silver wire. There are no lights at all, every scrap of window covered up to preserve the factory from the bombers roving in the skies above.

"About bloody time," whispers Newkirk, pulling out the binoculars. Now that they're out of the woods the clear sky provides enough light for him to get an idea of the dimensions of the factory, gaps in the silver wire marking gates into the complex. He makes a quick count of the entrances and likely guard posts while Carter crouches at his side, quiet for once. "Right, looks good. Let's do a quick tour 'round to make sure we're not missing anything, then get back to camp."

"Alrightee," says Carter, and falls in behind him again.

They skirt the factory along the edge of the woods, careful to keep far enough from the gates to avoid any overly-alert guard, moving more slowly now in a genuine effort at silence.

They're making good time, and have already found an extra entrance which wasn't visible from the north side of the factory, when Newkirk puts his foot down and feels something shift unnaturally underneath it. In the quiet of the rural night, he hears the light click; it sounds amazingly like a pistol being cocked. In his chest Newkirk's heart skips a beat so forcefully it hurts, while his insides suddenly twist as though a frigid hand had taken hold of then and squeezed. He nearly falls in his haste to stop, sweat breaking out so instantly it's like being drenched by summer rain.

Behind him, Carter stumbles to a stop, kicking up leaves on the frosty ground but otherwise quiet.

"Newkirk?"

Newkirk looks down, long and slow as dusk falling. In the darkness, he can't see what's under his foot. He knows anyway. Knows that the indeterminate length of his life has suddenly been cut into a string exactly as long as his ability to keep his balance. He takes a shuddering breath, fluttering heart making him feel sick and dizzy, and tries to speak in a normal tone.

"I just stepped on a ruddy landmine, Carter." The words tumble out like smoothed pebbles, some faster than others, voice less even than he wanted.

Carter says nothing, doesn't move from where he's standing somewhere in the darkness behind Newkirk. Newkirk can't spare any thought for the man, can't spare any thought for anything except for the spring-loaded death waiting under his right foot. His mind is running in desperate circles trying to find a way out of this, like a caged fox trying to bite and scratch its way out of the mesh entrapping it. He has no way to dismantle it, neither the knowledge or the tools. There's no point in waiting for the guards to find him, either. They'll simply gun him down to get him off of it, and bring about exactly the same ending to this problem.

He's startled out of his thoughts by Carter's sudden appearance next to his leg, crouched low to the ground and brushing away leaves with his gloved hands. He runs his fingers along the edges of Newkirk's boot, carefully sweeping outwards from there.

"What the bleedin' 'ell're you doing?" snaps Newkirk, heart in his throat beating so hard his teeth ache.

Carter doesn't answer, but he does stop sweeping and leans back on his haunches, from the angle of his head probably staring at the dark patch of ground below Newkirk's foot. After a minute he reaches out a more delicate hand – in the moonlight it is nothing but a shadowy movement – to trace over the thin layer of dirt hiding the metal beneath.

"Yup," he says finally, in a conclusive tone, "that's a landmine."

"So glad you agree!" Newkirk takes a deep breath, and forces his thoughts from the dark hole they're spinning around. "Look, there's no point in your hangin' 'round here. Get back to camp and tell the colonel… tell him …" the words stick in his throat; he can't say them, can't admit it, can't face what's waiting for him as soon as he shifts his weight – and already his resolve is cracking, splintering, sickly bitter phrases flitting through his mind; _better to end it quick – just take the step – close your eyes and move_. "Tell him sorry for ruining the record," Newkirk forces out, voice cracking.

Carter doesn't answer. When Newkirk looks down, the man is gone. The goddamn Yank's run off already, tail between his legs, without even bothering to say goodbye. Newkirk curses in a strangled, thin tone. He'd pegged Carter as incompetent, but a coward?

Well, now he knows. And he'll never have the chance to report back on it.

Newkirk sways, a simple unintentional shift in his balance. The echo of his own voice in his ears shouting incoherently snaps him into action and allows him to correct the move. His heart is hammering so fast now that he can't count the beats, only knows the racing stream seems to be driving adrenaline through his body faster than an electrical circuit.

He's going to die out here, alone, in the middle of a country he was never supposed to be in. Probably soon. His leg is starting to shiver, back cramping at the unnatural weight distribution he's holding tight as a lifeline – _is_ his lifeline.

Behind him, something cracks, and then there's a shuffling through the underbrush. Newkirk freezes, arms held out to his side to keep his balance, neck suddenly painfully stiff although he has no idea why.

"Who is it?" The question's an instinct rather than a decision, which accounts for its idiocy. What could it possibly matter?

"Just me," replies Carter, sounding surprised. Also a bit strained.

"Carter? What the – thought you'd left?"

"Huh? Oh, no, I just went to find this. What, you think I'd leave you out here stuck on a mine? That's a nice thing to say about a guy." Carter shuffles around into view, shoulders low and hunched forwards, carrying something large and dark and, from his posture, heavy. He squats down at Newkirk's side again, and places whatever it is between his legs, panting slightly.

Newkirk's still trying to catch up with the sudden change in direction. "Well it's at least a bit understandable," he manages at last, thrown completely off by the American's sudden unexpected reappearance. Carter doesn't answer; he seems to be busy doing something with the dirt. He's using both hands now, and in gentle movements is gathering it up like a child forming a sand castle. "What're you doing? You're going to blow yourself up too."

"Oh, no, that's pretty unlikely. You see, these mines are made pretty poorly. The springs have a lot of give in them – they don't have to be precision instruments, they've just got to know the difference between zero and 160, give or take. A little here or there's not gonna set them off." He sounds surprisingly confident. What's more, he seems cool and collected, as if he did this kind of thing every day.

Newkirk, despite himself, is struck by a sudden wave of kindness. "Look, Carter, I appreciate this, but there's no point in the two of us cashing it in. You'd better get back to camp."

Carter doesn't even look up. Just keeps doing… whatever it is he's doing down there in the dirt.

Newkirk's starting to feel hope, and that's bad because there _is no hope_. He's out here in the middle of very hostile territory on top of a landmine with only _Andrew Carter_ to save him. He is quite simply going to die. Better to accept it, and make some kind of peace.

"Carter…"

"All ready," cuts in the American, looking up. In the poor light Newkirk can't make out his expression very clearly, just the general planes of Carter's face and the glint of his eyes. From what he can see, there's no concern there. Just a kind of attentive waiting.

"Ready for what?"

"Well, see, we'll push this boulder here onto the mine, at the same time as you slide your foot off. The rock will replace your weight."

Newkirk's heart constricts painfully as disappointment washes through his system. This was _exactly_ why he shouldn't have started to believe Carter could actually get him out of this. "Carter, I don't know if you've noticed, but I weight a lot more than a bleedin' _rock_."

"It won't matter. I told you, these things have really poor springs – it makes them quicker and cheaper to produce. This one's probably rusty, anyway. And besides, it's not your whole weight on it, no more than half." Carter doesn't even sound like he's arguing, just refuting patently wrong facts with patently right ones. Like he's laying out the only sensible course of option.

"There's still a fair difference between 80 pounds and – what, 30? 40?"

Carter shrugs. "It should work."

"You're going to get yourself killed, Andrew," hisses Newkirk, awash in a sea of desperation at this stupidity. He doesn't know why – he doesn't want to die. God, he doesn't want to. He'd do anything, try anything to get out of this – anything except ask another man to die beside him.

"Newkirk," says Carter, quietly. "Trust me." It's not a request. If anything, it's an order. The first time he's heard the American, who outranks nearly every man in camp, give one. It puzzles Newkirk into silence. "Right. Now, when you feel the rock press against your foot, slide it away without taking off any of the pressure. Don't lift, slide. Let it push your foot all the way off the plate, okay?"

"Yeah, sure," says Newkirk faintly. Cowardice, he can deal with. Incompetence too. But here he can feel his attempts at dissuasion washing up like waves against the breakwater of Carter's demented determination, his words completely and utterly ineffectual.

"Right." Carter shuffles backwards a foot to give himself a better angle to push from. And starts, almost imperceptibly, to press his arms forwards.

It's still nearly a minute before Newkirk feels the slight pressure against the side of his foot, pressing nearly clean in the middle of his boot. It's another ten seconds before the pressure is enough to begin to push his foot off the plate. He's careful to do as Carter said and keep the same amount of downwards pressure, locking his knee and hip-joints and balancing mostly on his left leg to do so. Carter keeps pressing, slow and even, and his foot begins to slide across the plate. Across, and off the side. Further. Further. Further.

Newkirk's foot slides off and onto the frosty dirt which, while hard, is still softer than the metal of the landmine. He lets out a huge sigh and sways, heart-rate dropping below 90 for the first time in nearly twenty minutes, afraid to move.

"It worked," he chokes out, amazed.

Carter gently takes his hands off the rocks and steps away. "I told you it would," he says, as if there had never been any doubt.

Newkirk turns to look at him, or the dark silhouette of him, still floating in shock. "I guess you did." He takes a cautious step away from the mine, then another. Spell broken he scampers backwards right into the forest, knowing if he doesn't do it now in the rush of insane relief he won't be able to move for fear of stepping on another. Carter follows him back in a slower, mostly unconcerned walk; Newkirk realises he's already been over the ground several times before. Wonders if it even occurred to him what he was risking with each step he took. It's a question that, right now at least, he has no capacity to deal with.

"Let's get back to camp," he says, and the relief bubbles up again, stronger this time now that he knows he's safe. He feels safer out in the middle of the woods of hostile Germany than he ever has in his life; he feels like he could fly. "No one's coming back 'ere if I 'ave any say in it. Bloody London can bomb it if they're so keen on blowing it up."

"I'm all for that," agrees Carter, catching up, a streak of moonlight glinting off his teeth as he grins.

"Great." Newkirk slows, suddenly awkward, dextrous fingers twisting in the tight-knit wool of his jumper as he turns to face the American. "And, Andrew?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. I – truth is, I don't know too many men who'd've done that for a friend, never mind a stranger."

Carter shrugs again, movement harder to detect in the darkness of the forest. "No problem," he says. In anyone else Newkirk would suspect self-effacement. In Carter, it's just the simple truth. The sergeant starts walking again, apparently expecting nothing else from the conversation. Newkirk shakes his head and follows, catching the man's elbow when he stumbles over a bush.

When they get back to camp, Newkirk will tell Hogan Carter passed, with flying colours. Provided he tries to work on his coordination.


	3. Chapter 3

Notes: A little something for New Year's Eve; hope you all have a good one. In terms of notes, this chapter takes place over several months rather than a specific point in time. While it's possible that future chapters could therefore be set in timeline of this one rather than after it, it's probably not so likely, and I doubt you're all that interested in the minute details in any case. Thanks to those who have taken the time to leave feedback, and feel free to leave any criticisms you have; I appreciate it all.

* * *

Carter always wears gloves. It's something Newkirk notices absently, in the same way that he notices that the nail that's been pounded down in the wall beside his bunk is crooked, or that the colonel's shoes need new laces. He's vaguely aware of it, but it doesn't mean anything to him.

He doesn't have any cause to actually take note of it until a couple months after the American arrives at Stalag 13, and the colonel decides he's picked up enough rudimentary German to be allowed out on impersonation missions.

"So we'll need three uniforms; Carter'll be coming along as an extra guard," says Hogan, winding down his mission speech. The man looks up, surprised; Hogan waves it away with an easy hand. "Just a private, nothing fancy. Get him all set up, Newkirk."

"Right, sir."

"Get going, then."

"Yes, sir."

Carter's the same height as Newkirk himself, and although he's slimmer all around, that means Newkirk has to take in one of his own uniforms a little – no one'll be looking for a perfect fit in a private. Easy work. He's finished well before the mission, and provides Carter with the heavy woollen uniform to change into a good fifteen minutes before they're scheduled to make their final checks.

Newkirk's putting on his own uniform when the colonel comes in, just as Carter's finishing with his belt. Which is why the colonel is the one to catch the sergeant out, rather than him.

"Carter, what are you wearing on your hands?"

Newkirk looks up, and rolls his eyes. Carter's wearing his thick sheepskin gloves with the Wehrmacht private's uniform.

"Huh? Oh, sorry, sir. I just… my hands get cold, y'know? Poor circulation, or something. My cousin's got it; sometimes his feet go to sleep when he's just sitting around! It's funny, really, because –"

"Okay, Carter," cuts off Hogan. "Newkirk, get him something that fits."

"Right, sir. I think we've got some gloves left over from last month's knitting contest."

Newkirk checks, and finds that they do indeed; issues Carter a pair of faded green gloves and finishes up putting on his own uniform. He doesn't notice the sergeant change his gloves, but after that he takes just a bit more notice.

* * *

Carter wears his gloves to bed. Whether he takes them off when he gets there or not, Newkirk doesn't know, but he's always got them on when he gets in at night and out again in the morning. He wears them to the shower, although presumably not in it; eats in them; does the laundry in them; plays cards in them. As he integrates with the team, it becomes just another part of him, like LeBeau's beret or Kinch's moustache.

A month after the first mission Carter is promoted to Luftwaffe captain, forcing Newkirk to pick out the chevrons on his sleeves and the markings on his lapels to replace them. The Yank shows up in the mission room in his old green gloves, though, straightening his cap.

"Andrew, officers don't wear wool gloves," says Newkirk in the tone of one stating something patently obvious, first to notice this time. Carter glances down at them.

"Oh." Carter pauses, then gives an awkward grin. "Got something else?"

Newkirk sighs, but goes to check. He finds a pair of unlined black leather gloves, left over from some old heavy-hitting general played by the colonel, and brings them back.

"Hey, thanks. These look great."

"Glad you think so," says Newkirk. He has to admit, they do lend some verisimilitude to Carter's hard-as-nails performance.

* * *

The sergeant accumulates a whole collection of them. The wool gloves for enlisted men, the leather for officers. Orange latex for photography and chemistry, and white latex for a brief stint as a surgeon. He even gets Newkirk to sew him up a pair of white cotton ones when he's assigned to cater dinners thrown by Klink. And, of course, the faded sheepskin for when he's just plain Andrew Carter.

It never occurs to Newkirk to wonder why, if the Yank's circulation's so poor, his feet are never cold in his threadbare socks.

* * *

It's the nature of most work to have ups and downs, and it's just as true of theirs. They go for weeks without anything new to spy on or blow up or rescue, and then all at once they have so many missions that they're commuting.

It's ridiculous, really, but the colonel's never been one to turn down an advantage, and when they finally succeed in bribing the motor pool guard to rent them cars at 10 pfennig a mile they take full advantage of it.

Tonight they've got two missions to run: First a quick drop-off of some radio supplies to an established agent in town, and then a meeting with a would-be cell that wants to join the local Underground faction.

The drop goes smoothly, Carter and Newkirk waiting in the car while the colonel, dressed as a Luftwaffe colonel to go along with the staff car, makes the drop and returns twenty minutes later wiping his face with a kerchief.

"That took a fair while, sir," says Newkirk, grinning into the mirror while Carter pushes the starter and slides the car into gear.

"Cinderella had a lot to talk about," replies Hogan, in mock seriousness.

"I can see that, sir. You missed a spot," he adds, tapping at the corner of his jaw and raising his eyebrows at the colonel. Hogan smiles and wipes at it, lipstick staining his handkerchief irreparably red.

The drive isn't too long; Newkirk pulls out the map and gives directions once they're out of Hammelburg. Carter doesn't technically _need_ a navigator; it's only important if they want to get where they're going in less than a few hours.

Their destination is an abandoned barn in the middle of an old farmstead. A modern building some acres away has taken the place of this one, a ram-shackle wooden structure looming wide and crooked in the car's headlights as they draw up to it. Once Carter switches the engine off Newkirk can see a soft glow of light seeping out from between cracks in the thin walls, painting crazy yellow strips across the uneven ground.

He goes in first, Carter following, both of them with their hands on the machine guns they carry. There are three young men standing at the far end of the barn, each holding luger pistols; in front of them an old oil lamp is sitting on a box in the middle of the derelict barn.

"Do you know my step-mother?" asks one, gun aimed square at Newkirk.

"Yes, I clean her kitchen," replies Hogan from behind him, pushing forward between him and Carter and striding forward angrily. "Alright, put down your guns. What're you guys doing sitting around in here with a light and no look-out?"

The men – boys, really – look sullen, but tuck their weapons away and come forward. Someone has set up old buckets and boxes around the lamp, and they come to sit down on them.

"No one ever comes out here," one says, glaring at Hogan. "This barn was abandoned years ago."

"Doesn't mean someone driving by won't see the lights."

"No one drives here; the road leads only to the farm, and the couple is elderly. They do not go out at night," says another. They're in their early twenties at most, Newkirk judges, and each with a chip on his shoulder larger than the last. He walks over to the circle along with Carter, glancing around. The barn's dirt floor is covered with the remaining scraps of its final harvest of straw. Up in the hay loft he can see low heaps in the dim light, the last of the hay abandoned along with the barn. The air is full of dust, so thick he can see it in the lamp-light, and smells strongly of dirt and must. He steps over a box and sits down on it, gun resting on his knees.

"Alright," says Hogan, "Talk. Why did you want to see me, rather than the Underground?"

"You run the big operations; you are the one the Underground turns to when they fail. Why should we go to them?" The oldest boy, a sturdy blond in a worn corduroy jacket, scowls.

"The Underground does good work," says Newkirk, irritated at the boy's dismissal of his countrymen's efforts. "They take big risks and have good results to show for it."

The middle boy, with long brown hair in need of a cut and a long shabby raincoat, shrugs. "Maybe, but they are small potatoes. Why become involved if we cannot be in on the big action?"

Newkirk rolls his eyes.

The colonel shifts, frowning, voice hard. "Look guys, this isn't a popularity contest, and it's not a game. You're not going to win any medals or impress the girls with this. You'll be risking your lives to help your country, and you'll be doing whatever needs to be done, no matter how small. You're not going to be blowing up munitions factories one night and bridges the next. You'll be passing messages, maybe giving directions or at most running limited courier service."

"That is what the Underground said! That is why we came to you – we do not want to be messenger-boys! We want to fight, to strike back!" The oldest boy stands, nearly shouting; the other two nod in fierce agreement.

Hogan stands as well, arms crossed and expression unimpressed. "That's what the army's for, and too bad for you the only one that's open for you belongs to the wrong side. We work in _secret_; making little mistakes count. Yes, sometimes we run sabotage missions, but that's the exception. It's not dashing, exciting work. It's living everyday in fear that someone'll notice you're talking to Fritz in the grocery store an awful lot. This isn't your chance for glory."

"That's not _good enough_!" snarls the boy, and kicks at the box in front of him. He connects full-force, and the oil lamp goes flying. It breaks on the floor with a quiet tinkling; Newkirk's brain fills in the _whoomph_ sound which he does not actually hear as the flame licks in the dust floating thick in the air and balloons out for an instant. It dies away almost immediately, but it's enough. The fire has spread to a radius of nearly a yard, dry straw catching instantaneously.

"Put out that fire!" shouts Hogan, and hurries over to stomp at a pool of flames. Newkirk runs over to another, struggling to undo his belt so he can pull off his overcoat and try to smother it. By the time he's succeeded the fire is spreading up two paper-dry walls. The boys have disappeared after a short-lived attempt at kicking out a few flames, and Hogan is straightening, glancing around at the fire. The hayloft goes up with a _whoomph _that _is_ audible, both Newkirk and Hogan ducking as the fire fans out to engulf the barn's upper storey. The air is already filling with smoke, thick and acrid.

"Too late, get out!" Hogan pushes both double doors open, letting in the cold night air. The fire is whistling, happily licking up the musty hay and rotting wooden slats. Newkirk hurries over in the direction of the cool air and the dark night sky.

Stops, as he realises that the colonel is standing outside alone, and turns around.

Carter is standing on the other side of the barn, coat collar in his hands while the tails trail on the floor, staring with wide eyes at the inferno. In the flickering firelight, Newkirk can see he's terrified.

"Carter!" he bellows. If Carter hears him, he doesn't answer. The sergeant takes a step back, and hits the wall. The fire has filled the entire hayloft, and is spreading up towards the ceiling; the air is blackening with smoke. Newkirk hisses between his teeth and dashes across the floor, bent low against the smoke and barking his shin on the box he had been sitting on. He reaches Carter and grabs the man's arm, shaking him. "Come on," he shouts, and without waiting for reaction turns to drag Carter out; it's like towing a sleepwalker. The smoke is already so thick that he can hardly see, but with the intense heat pouring down from above he can sense the exit by the cool air that is still flowing in from in front of him. He pulls Carter across the floor, the sergeant tripping over something this time but hurrying fast enough that his momentum saves him. They emerge from the barn at a staggering run, bent low at the waist and coughing fit to choke. They keep going until they actually hit the staff car, parked some yards away from the barn, dark night difficult to immediately distinguish from dark smoke.

Newkirk can hardly breathe, lungs burning and mouth tasting like an ash tray, much less entirely grasp the situation. When someone opens the door in front of him and pushes him in, he goes, ignoring Carter falling in after him. He's coughing too hard, tears streaming from his eyes, to notice the car starting.

It's not until he's finally purged most of the smoke from his lungs and can breath without feeling like hot ash is coating his insides that he really notices they're in the car, heading back to Stalag 13. The colonel is driving, glancing in the mirror every few seconds at him and Carter. Carter, who's coughing quietly next to him, partly turned away towards the door. Carter, the ruddy fool who was standing staring at a room full of fire rather than leaving as ordered. Newkirk half-punches him in the shoulder.

"What the bloody 'ell was that about, then?"

Carter sucks in a breath and shrugs. "Not so g-good with fire," he coughs out, ducking his head to rub at his mouth. "S-sorry."

"You nearly got yourself killed," says Newkirk harshly, not sure whether he's more furious on Carter's behalf or his own; it takes a special kind of stupidity to get stuck in a burning building with the exit readily available. Carter says nothing, but doesn't look at him. Newkirk turns up his lip and looks away himself, disgusted.

* * *

They don't speak the rest of the way back to camp. They leave the car at the agreed point and hike through the woods as quietly as they can, both he and Carter still coughing quietly from time to time in the cold air. By the time they reach the tunnel he's feeling mostly himself again, chest no longer burning and gut no longer catching with each coughing spasm. He clambers down the ladder and into the main alcove without issue, Hogan and Carter following similarly.

Kinch is there to greet them when they get back, but Hogan sends him away almost immediately; "Radio the Underground and tell them the boys are out. Until they cool down they're no good to anyone. Tell them I'm advising they avoid further contact."

Kinch gives the three of them a hard look, but says only "Right, sir," and disappears to do as ordered.

They head for the changing alcove, Newkirk dying for a shower and all the more irritated for knowing that having had one this morning he's not scheduled for another until the day after tomorrow; his bed will smell like an ash-tray by then.

He is consequently changing uniforms in stony silence when he happens to glance at Carter, who appears to be lost in thought as he pulls on his jumpsuit. It's not the sergeant's obliviousness that catches his eye, but the fact that the man has pulled off his gloves to reveal his bare hands.

"Good God, Andrew, your 'ands," blurts out Newkirk before he can stop himself, staring, anger entirely forgotten.

In the mellow tunnel light the palms of Carter's hands are a reddened, blistered, wrinkled mess. Newkirk's first thought is that the man must have somehow put them in the fire, and he's grabbed Carter by the shoulder for the second time that night before he entirely realises he's moved across the alcove. "You need a bloody medic," he says, shocked, even as Carter tries to shrug away and tuck his hands under his arms.

Hogan stops him before he gets any further, lifting his hand off Carter's arm. "Hold up, Newkirk," he says, softly. "Those aren't new."

Newkirk turns to stare at his CO, who looks back gravely, and then at Carter who reluctantly holds out his hands again. Newkirk can see, looking at them more closely, that what he had taken for new burns is in fact scar tissue from old ones, healed but still very evident. His right hand is noticeably affected, but not so much it would cause more than a passing glance. However the palm of his left, and the sides edging up towards the back, is nearly completely covered with burns, the skin red and waxy and wrinkled or blistered.

"Guess you can see why I'm not so good with big fires," says Carter with a humourless grin, and finishes zipping up his suit; picks up his jacket.

"What 'appened?" asks Newkirk thoughtlessly, still partly hypnotised by the unexpected horror.

Carter shrugs. "When I was shot down, we went down too fast for anyone to bail out. By the time we hit the ground, most of the bird was on fire. Getting out wasn't so easy." He says it matter-of-factly, but there's a waver in his voice that tells more than his words. He pulls his bomber jacket on and then reaches for his sheepskin gloves. Puts them on, looks at Newkirk and gives an awkward smile. "Sorry," he says, and walks out.

Newkirk stares after him, standing in the alcove in only his trousers and undershirt.

Behind him the colonel shifts, moving over to hang his coat up on a rack, pointedly not looking at the corporal.

"Did you know, sir?" asks Newkirk, staring at the line of his commanders back.

Hogan turns, and Newkirk can tell it's not the response the colonel wanted. "I read his file when Klink got around to giving it to me," says Hogan flatly. "He spent his routine interrogation in the local infirmary. It's not so unusual."

"And you never wondered –"

"If I should discriminate against one of my men based on appearance?" asks Hogan, expression watchful.

Newkirk flushes. "No, sir," he says hotly, cockney coming on strong. "Whether 'e'd need bloody 'elp."

"I think it's pretty clear that he manages perfectly well. Bringing it up would only prompt a repeat of this scenario." Hogan crosses his arms, staring at Newkirk with dark eyes. Newkirk looks away first, flushing again but from a different cause, and hurries towards the corridor pulling his shirt on and grabbing his jacket as he goes.

* * *

The tunnels are deserted at this time of night, the press and tailoring units shut down, the photography lab dark. Only the radio station is lit-up and manned, as always. Kinch looks up as he walks by, jacket over his shoulder.

"'Ave you seen Carter?"

Kinch shrugs, and indicates the tunnel leading towards the coolers with his thumb. "Went that way a minute ago. What's up?"

"Nothing," says Newkirk, and picks up his jog again.

The candles in the tunnels are always lit, but after closing hour they snuff out every two of three. It leaves the tunnels with enough visibility to avoid running into walls, but that's the limit. Consequently, when he finally finds Carter in the long straight shot bridging the gap between the cooler and the barracks, he is only able to pick him out from the uneven darkness because this portion of the tunnel is the straightest in camp.

Carter's leaning back against the dirt wall, just a dark silhouette in the flickering light. If he moves when he notices Newkirk approaching, Newkirk doesn't see it.

"Carter?"

There's a momentary pause, and then, "Yeah." His tone is flat, any more than that Newkirk can't read from the single word.

"I – sorry about ragging you, mate. It wasn't fair."

Newkirk counts five beats of his heart before Carter answers, expression unreadable. "S'okay; you didn't know. And it was pretty stupid, freezing up like that." There's embarrassment in his tone, as well as Carter's usual even temper. And, under that, a hint of gravel.

"If I'd gone down in a burning plane, I'd damn well be terrified of fire," says Newkirk earnestly. He bailed out before the flames caught in earnest, but the smoke and noise had been more than bad, worse than most nightmares.

Carter shifts, the rustle of leather inordinately loud in the muffled silence of the tunnel. "It's just something you try not to think about, y'know? Something you want to forget. I shouldn't; 's not fair."

Newkirk frowns, not following. "Sure it is. No reason t' torture yourself."

"Only me and the tail gunner made it out," says Carter, sounding like he's speaking through a mouthful of grit. "My captain – the guys –" He doesn't finish, the only sound another whisper of leather.

_Christ_. This is why no one asks for specifics unless they're volunteered, why no one brings up the one night they've all got in common. For so many of them, it's a night they never want to remember.

"I'm sorry, mate," says Newkirk, quietly. There's nothing else to say.

"Thanks." Carter's voice is scratchy as a dusty record., but not broken.

Newkirk shifts to wait with his back braced against the tunnel, the two of them resting still and quiet in the darkness. They stay there for several minutes until eventually Carter pushes away from the wall with a soft patter of falling dirt and leads the way back up to the barracks in silence. The colonel's the only one waiting up for them; Newkirk gives a half-nod, half-shrug to the officer. Hogan nods in return, apparently confident in Newkirk's ability to resolve what needed to be resolved, and disappears into his quarters. They go to bed without speaking.

* * *

A couple of weeks later, Carter's sheepskin gloves split a long seam along the thumb-line.

"Want me to fix those for you?" he asks when he notices, walking back towards the ladder from the radio alcove, gesturing to the gloves. Carter looks down at them, hooking a finger through the hole.

"Yeah, I guess." He follows Newkirk into the otherwise empty tailoring section, sitting on the stool Newkirk indicates while the corporal fishes through his threads and needles. When he turns, it's to find Carter holding out the glove in his naked hand with an almost natural expression on his face. Newkirk takes it and sits, turning it inside out to begin stitching, and starts to prattle on about nothing. By the time he's finished, Carter's bantering with him, completely oblivious of the pale hand resting on his knee. Newkirk hands the glove back, seams at least good as new, and gives a half-grinning nod. Carter takes the glove and pulls it on in with thoughtless motion, smiling back.

"Thanks."

Newkirk steps over to return his needle to the pin cushion. "Don't mention it. What're friends for?" And then, glancing at his watch, "C'mon, it'll be time for dinner in a minute." He slaps Carter on the shoulder, heading for the corridor, and they go up together.


End file.
